Raising we girls by the Book of Conflicting Messages, my Mother lovingly shaped me into an ask questions later act like a lady you can do anything but learn to type first boys only want one thing but don’t say what it is do it right or don’t do it at all fall in love but have something to fall back on artist. Oh, and learn to cook and sew. Men like that.
Somehow, as a result, I embraced domesticity in feminine spirit but not in action. And, of course, feel guilty about not being a good wife. Misguided domestic talents eventually grew into concepts of sewing an unyielding medium, baking inedible creations, and stitching glass clothing no one can wear. Housekeeping is last while instead I cook, arrange, and sew glass.
My life and art are the result of homemaking skills gone awry. I have the luxury of exploring the complexities of domestic life from the safe distance of my studio.
For years I believed my work was about myself. But ultimately my work is about my Mother. With the sewing and cooking skills she passed on, I am able to indulge my own notions of domestic role-playing. My work embraces the feminine ideals of sewing and cooking, but in a contrary material, offering conflicting messages of comfort and expectation.
I often explain that my Mother was not an artist herself, but knew how to raise one. Thanks Mom, this little acorn did not fall far from the tree.